


Memories of the Heart

by dozmuffinxc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: sshg_exchange, F/M, HP: EWE, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dozmuffinxc/pseuds/dozmuffinxc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wizarding world is just beginning to recover from the war against Voldemort and his dark forces when, alas! it is forced to suffer yet another shock: Hermione Granger, the brains of the Golden Trio, is pregnant! When it becomes clear that the father is not her best friend and assumed lover Ron Weasley, Hermione finds solace in the friendship of the Boy Who Lived and, by sharing her memories of the last few years through the eyes of a trusty Pensieve, allows the truth to be revealed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Pregnant Pause

The dining room at the Burrow was nowhere near as packed as it had been in the past.

Hermione remembered her first visit to the Burrow and every subsequent visit with a fondness that now felt somehow hollow and surreal. It was strange, she thought, how a place could remain so unchanged and yet be so irrevocably different. Glancing surreptitiously around the table at the witches and wizards seated around one of Molly Weasley's characteristically-extravagant meals, that difference was made real by the shadows on the faces of each guest. It wasn't just Bill who had come away with scars. Every member of the dinner party wore their mark differently.

She saw it in the way that Harry held tightly to Ginny's hand under the table, as though some unseen force would rip them apart if they didn't cling together just so.

She saw it in Mrs. Weasley's frantic energy, amplified (if possible) in her dogged attempts at keeping a regular conversation going between the members of her extended family and the harried way in which she insisted Ron hadn't gotten enough cabbage though he had already eaten three servings from her hand.

It was there in the dark shadows under Mr. Weasley's eyes and in the forced smiles that Charlie afforded George's admittedly-lackluster jokes. Most disturbing of all, perhaps, was the lean, hungry look, froth with expectation, that Ron kept casting in her direction. She did her best to avoid returning his glances, engaging Percy in conversation instead.

Even as she discussed new measures for Muggle-born safety, Hermione felt the absence of familiar bodies like a pain in her gut and did her best to avoid looking around at the seats that should have been filled. Her resolve slipped when George reached across the table to hand her the butter plate and her eyes started filling with tears for what must have been the third time that evening. 

What is wrong with me, she thought, swiping at her face with the cloth napkin beside her plate. Of course George would remind me of Fred, but it isn't as though I didn't expect that to happen. It's been two months. Keep it together, Granger. 

By the time dessert had been brought in (a massive flan with a crème glaze that glittered magically with sparks of red and gold when hit by candlelight), Hermione's tears had dried. Replacing them, however, was an equally disconcerting wave of nausea. This was not the first bout of stomach trouble she had dealt with in the past two weeks. She had always been quite healthy as a child; her mother had remarked more than once that she had a firm constitution. While at Hogwarts, Hermione had visited the hospital wing only when absolutely necessary, like the time she Polyjuiced herself into a half-cat mutant or ended up Petrified after a close call with a basilisk. It was strange that, all of a sudden, she should be struck by a recurring stomach bug.

All in all, she was holding up quite well until Percy passed her a serving of the flan. Just as she was opening her mouth to thank him, she took in the sight of the yellowish, jiggling concoction swimming around in its caramel-colored sauce and instantly clamped her hand to her lips. For a moment, she wondered absurdly whether the dish could be a Portkey; the sensation of a hook being fastened to her navel was so similar, as was the way the room seemed almost to blur out of focus. Setting the dish down carefully, she managed to sputter a "'scuseme" before lurching from her chair and fleeing down the hall to the tiny bathroom at the end of the corridor.

By the time Hermione was able to pry her fingers from the rim of the toilet long enough to stand, the rest of the party had moved into the sitting room for tea. She could hear their chatter down the hall but, rather than face a barrage of sympathetic questions, she veered back towards the kitchen where she thought she might find a moment's quiet.

She wasn't alone, however; Mrs. Weasley was holding court over a sink full of sudsy water, piled high with dishes that were in the middle of rinsing themselves off one-by-one in the steaming liquid. Hermione stood in the doorway and watched, amused, as the older woman waved her wand like a conductor's baton over the clinking plates and cups. Each piece of crockery allowed itself to be subjected to a sound scrubbing by a trio of sponges flying through the air, unassisted, before drifting over to the drying rack where they nestled together and fell still. She had just made up her mind to turn around and join the others in the sitting room after all when Mrs. Weasley turned around, her cheeks red from the heat of the water, and beckoned her in. Hermione smiled and made a slow, steady path for the nearest chair. She didn't trust herself on her feet yet – the world still seemed to be wobbling underfoot – and the sooner she was off of them, the better.

"Are you feeling better, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked. As she turned back to the sink, she flicked her wand at a clean teacup on the sideboard which floated over to Hermione and settled with a quiet thud on the kitchen table where it proceeded to fill itself with tea.

"Yes, thank you," Hermione replied. "I don't know what happened."

"I hope it wasn't the food," Mrs. Weasley offered unconvincingly; it was obvious she had no suspicions as to the suitability of her cooking.

"No," Hermione assured her as she grasped the handle of her teacup, stroking the rim with her free hand. "I've had this stomach bug on and off for the last fortnight. Rather inconvenient, always running to the loo. I just hope it isn't contagious."

Mrs. Weasley glanced over her shoulder, eyes agleam with interest. As she did, the dishes in the sink sunk under the bubbles and the sponges fell to the side, immobile.

"Two weeks, you say," she asked, easing herself into the chair opposite Hermione.

"Yes," Hermione grimaced.

"You all right, Hermione?" Harry asked. He and Ginny stood in the doorway, and although their hands were out of sight, Hermione was willing to bet they were still intertwined.

Ron slouched past them into the kitchen, clutching his distended stomach and groaning dramatically.

"You really outdid yourself this time, mum," he said, patting his midsection and belching loudly. 

Ginny grimaced and edged away from her brother, fanning her free hand in front of her face.

"Merlin, Ron, you're disgusting!"

Before he had a chance to respond, Mrs. Weasley threw herself across the room and into his arms. Ron nearly toppled over from the force of her enthusiasm; it took all the strength he could muster to remain standing, patting his mother awkwardly on the back.

"S'alright, mum. Don't be sad," he muttered, looking around at his friends with a wide-eyed, wordless plea for help.

Mrs. Weasley wrenched her head from Ron's shoulder.

"Oh, love, I'm not sad. I'm happy! Of course I am. Your father and I would rather you'd gotten married first, but you were never one for the traditional route, were you? Oh, Ron," she gushed, glancing back at Hermione now.

"What—mum, what're you talking about?" Ron asked, mouth agape. 

He stared at Hermione, expecting her to shake her head or roll her eyes - anything to acknowledge that his mother had completely lost her mind. Hermione, however, stood completely still, her face the color of a sheet, her eyes riveted to the back of Mrs. Weasley's head.

"Darling," Mrs. Weasley replied, patting Ron's face as though he were a child who'd just made a silly mistake, "I recognize the signs. After seven children of my own, I'm only surprised I didn't notice sooner. And you," she cried, releasing Ron and spinning around to face Hermione with a grin that creased every wrinkle in her face, "my dear, it will be such a joy to have you in our family. Just think! Little ones in the house again!"

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry ventured, squinting through his glasses at his soon-to-be mother-in-law, "are you trying to say that... Hermione's pregnant?"

"I would've thought it was obvious," Mrs. Weasley chided, smiling indulgently at Harry. "And such a clever witch as she is, to not have figured it out!" Turning to Hermione, she continued to enthuse: "The nausea, the aversion to my cooking, and just look at your face! You've been practically glowing these last few weeks, and here I thought you were just happy to have the war over."

Hermione certainly wasn't glowing now. Rather, her face was turning an unpleasant shade of green.

"But she can't be pregnant, mum," Ron retorted, cocking his head and considering Hermione with an expression that would have been comical in any other situation. "We haven't... I mean, it's not like there's been time... Merlin's beard, mum, I know where babies come from!"

Molly's smile began to fade as she looked from Ron to Hermione and back again.

"But... if you're not the father, then who...?"

Hermione watched as first Ron, then Harry, Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley turned to face her with looks that varied from betrayal to concern. In reply, she promptly bent over her tea cup and threw up every last bit of Mrs. Weasley's roast chicken and potatoes.


	2. Calm in the Storm

The knock came in the middle of the afternoon. She wasn't surprised; he had Floo-ed ahead to let her know he was coming. Nevertheless, the reality of his being right outside her door with who-knows-what to say to her after all that had happened three weeks ago at the Weasley's... Hermione actually felt her heart beating faster, as if it wanted to escape her chest and answer the door itself.

She stepped gingerly around the knee-high tea table, taking her time to reach for the knob. Steeling herself for the worst, she twisted the brass handle, swallowed hard, and swung the door open.

"Harry, I-" she began. But before she could start in with the speech she had been rehearsing all morning, she was shocked into silence by the firm, comforting embrace of the Boy Who Lived.

She felt herself dissolving into tears as she rested her head on his shoulder. She was vaguely aware of Harry speaking, words that included "worried about you," and "so sorry," and "staying on your own, what were you thinking," but all that mattered in that moment was the fact that he was here. He wasn't railing against her, he hadn't abandoned her and, for the moment, it didn't appear as though he would be turning tail and running away.

Five minutes later, they were both hunkered down in the sitting room of Hermione's tiny flat. The setting could not have been more different from the last place they had been together: compared to the Burrow, Hermione's Wembley apartment was utilitarian, at best. Devoid of all but the most basic furniture, there was very little by way of personal touches to give the four-room space much appeal. In lieu of pictures, the walls were filled from floor to ceiling with books and the kitchen, rather than the locus of energy it was at the Weasley home, was little more than an alcove with a stove, a small array of pots and pans, and a cupboard that purportedly held all that might be needed by way of plates, cups, and silverware. Nevertheless, it suited Hermione fine, and Harry could not have been less concerned with anything that did not involve extracting answers out of his friend.

"We were all just so surprised," Harry said. "I didn't know you were... involved with anyone. Blimey, I think we all assumed that you and... well, you and Ron..."

Harry shrugged apologetically as he left whatever he was about to say unsaid.

"I wasn't," Hermione replied, sinking farther into her armchair. "That is... it's complicated." 

Seeing Harry's befuddled expression, she sighed and raked her fingers through her tangled hair.

"It was as much a surprise to me as it was to you, Harry. I didn't plan this, how could I? Not with the war, not with everything we went through. He - the father, that is -" she paused, her eyes seeking those of her friend as she struggled to decide how best to continue, "well, you wouldn't have understood if you had known about him and me."

"Hermione, how can you say that," Harry asked, suddenly stern. "After everything we've been through, do you really think I'd be small-minded enough to judge you?"

"Oh, Harry," Hermione shook her head, "it's not that simple. It only happened once, and I couldn't have imagined anything would come of it. And Harry, you're my best friend, but there are some things that even you would have a hard time dealing with. I thought, considering everything else we were up against at the time, that that was the least of your worries."

Harry seemed about to make an angry retort when he reconsidered, pressing his lips together and rubbing his temples with his thumb and index finger.

"Okay, 'Mione, you don't have to explain yourself," he said. "You did what you thought was best. What I can't understand, though, is why you've walled yourself up here for the last three weeks. You haven't replied to mine or Ginny's owls. We were worried, Hermione!"

Hermione winced, averting her gaze. Cheeks burning, she pulled an afghan around her shoulders and shifted in her seat.

"I... I know that you sent letters, Harry," she said, "but I was afraid to open them. I'm so sorry, but after Molly's Howler, I couldn't bear to open the mail at all."

It was Harry's turn to wince. 

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that," he muttered. "I didn't know she'd sent it until after it was gone. She's been in a right state ever since that dinner. She's not mad at you, Hermione," he said despite her grunt of disbelief, "it's just that she's surprised. A little hurt, yeah. I mean, everyone thought that you and Ron were going to be together after everything that happened. You seemed pretty happy for a while."

"Ron's a good man, Harry," Hermione whispered, choking back a fresh wave of tears, "but we wouldn't have lasted. Even you must know that our personalities are too different. Our interests, our passions... we've never been quite on the same wavelength, me and Ron. Surely you can recognize that?"

Her pleading look was acknowledged with a noncommittal shrug. This only served to frustrate her more.

"Oh, come on, Harry," Hermione fumed, suddenly defensive, "all Ron cares about is Quidditch and food! When has he ever expressed an interest in knowledge for knowledge's sake? When he gets married, it's going to be to a witch who can bear him so many children they won't be able to remember all their names. Do you really think I could have been happy with that, Harry? Do you?"

She could tell Harry was fighting back the urge to reply in defense of his best friend, but before he had the chance, she stopped him with a raised hand.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said. "I know I'm not being fair. I love Ron; it's just, I realized after the war that that love is the same love I have for you. You're both like my brothers. You understand that, don't you?"

Harry sighed. "I do. I just don't think that Ron does. Not yet, anyway. Ginny's working on him, but it's going to take a while. She was mad at first, Ginny was, but I think she understands now. At least, she's gotten over being angry and is just worried about you. We all are, and it hasn't helped that you've been a complete hermit for the last three weeks."

When Hermione didn't respond, Harry scooted forward in his seat and gently picked up her hand from where it rested, heavy as lead, on her lap.

"Who was it, Hermione," he said, seeking her eyes with his, "and why isn't he here? If he's not stepping up to be with you..."

Hermione managed a weak smile that looked more like a grimace.

"It's not that easy, Harry," she said. "It's not enough just to tell you his name. You're a wonderful friend, but even you will have a hard time with this one. If only there was some way to explain, to make you... see..."

Clapping a hand over her mouth, Hermione stifled a gasp as her eyebrows shot towards her hairline.

"That's it," she exclaimed. "I think I know how to make you understand! Will you... can you give me some time, Harry? I promise to tell you everything, but I can't get everything I need just now."

"Er... sure, 'Mione," Harry spluttered, bewildered at this change of behavior. "As long as you need. Just don't disappear again, all right?"

"I won't," Hermione replied, "I promise."

Getting to his feet, he walked with her towards the door of her flat and paused just once to give her another strong, tight hug.

"You're not alone," he said, his green eyes boring meaningfully into hers. "You know that, right, Hermione?"

"I do, Harry," she replied, smiling for the first time in weeks. "See you tomorrow."


	3. Comfort and Beginnings

It was hours before Harry was supposed to arrive, and Hermione found herself pacing back and forth across the bare stretch of floor between her kitchen and sitting room. Waiting had never been Hermione's strong-suit; she always liked to be doing something productive, but with the expectation of Harry's arrival at any moment, walking back and forth was the most she could bring herself to do. Barring that, she would probably end up in the corner of her bedroom, curled up in a fetal position. She much preferred the alternative.

At exactly five o'clock, the whisper of artificial flames in the fireplace made Hermione jump. A moment later, Harry's disembodied head bobbed into view, squinting into the room.

"Hermione? Can I come through?" he asked, his voice echoing strangely off the hearth stones.

"Go ahead, Harry," Hermione replied. Inhaling deeply, she stood with her arms crossed in what she hoped was a casual pose, her eyes fixed on the mantle.

As Harry stumbled into the living room, brushing ashes from his jeans, Hermione stifled an unexpected giggle. She smiled to see him wearing a wooly, crimson jumper (no doubt a Molly Weasley original). His glasses, knocked askew by Floo transport, had barely had a chance to become repositioned on his nose when Hermione launched herself into his arms, knocking them asunder once more. She hadn't seen him in almost three weeks, and that absence suddenly seemed much longer when she realized just how much she had missed him.

Harry grunted, the force of her hug knocking the air from his chest. "Good to see you, too, 'Mione," he gasped, patting her back.

"Sorry, Harry," she muttered, embarrassed. "It's just that I didn't know if you'd come. And I'm so glad you're here!"

"Of course I came," Harry exclaimed, disentangling himself from her embrace and putting her at arm's length to peer at her over the rim of his spectacles. Shaking his head, he raised an eyebrow and said, "Honestly, Hermione, I know I'm a git, but am I really that bad?"

"Oh, Harry, no," Hermione gasped, and for a moment it looked as though she was about to cry. Alarmed, Harry patted her awkwardly on the back and made to steer her towards an armchair when he stopped, gaping, at the table that had been set up in the middle of the room.

"Hermione," he began uncertainly, "is that what I think it is?"

A small coffee table with a square top the size of a large encyclopedia perched on spindly legs in the center of a dun-colored rug. A silver basin had been carefully placed directly in the center of the table, and although Harry could not see what was inside the bowl, a strange light was illuminating the rim with a silvery glow. Arranged around the basin was an assortment of small vials, each one containing a familiar, pearlescent substance.

Rather than reply, Hermione sighed and made her way to a small couch which had been pushed against a bookshelf to make room for the table and its contents. Falling back into the cushions, she patted the seat next to her and waited for Harry to join her before speaking.

"You deserve to know the truth, Harry," she began, "and I know that you, of all people, will make an effort to understand and accept what I have to tell you. But there's no easy way to go about this, and I'm afraid that talking won't be enough. So I thought that maybe, just maybe, if you could see it all through my eyes..."

Harry eyed the table with renewed interest. "Where did you find a Pensieve?"

"I sent an owl to Professor McGonagall after you left," Hermione replied. "I told her that I was doing some research into memory charms and their effects. She was happy to lend me hers, but she insisted on delivering it herself. She's rather busy these days, of course, so it took a while for us to set a date for her to come by." 

Harry nodded appreciatively. Now that the war was officially over, Professor McGonagall had set to work organizing repairs to the Hogwarts castle. She rarely left the grounds, insisting that there was simply too much to do if the school was to reopen in the fall. 

Raking his fingers through his messy hair, Harry glanced at his friend and paused. "Hermione," he said, "you know you don't have to do this. It wasn't fair for me to ask who... that is, it doesn't matter..."

"Harry," Hermione said, raising her hand to stop him, "I want you to know. Just... promise you won't say anything. At least, not until you've had a chance to think it over, all right?"

"I promise," Harry said.

Lips pursed in a grimace of determination, Hermione rose from the couch and walked the few steps to the table on which the Pensieve sat, its contents swirling eerily despite the room's air being quite still. Her fingers danced across the tops of the vials until she had chosen the right one, lifted it above the basin, and poured out the memory within. One by one the process was repeated until each vial had been emptied of its pearlescent threads of living thought.

Harry stood by Hermione's side as she replaced the cork in the last vial; as she set it down among its fellows, she looked up at him and offered an encouraging nod that seemed to say, _Yes, I've made the right decision_. Nevertheless, when he offered his hand, she did not hesitate to take it and together they bent over the Pensieve, fingers laced tightly.


	4. Into the Pensieve

Harry emerged from a whirl of colors into a scene that, while half-formed, was achingly familiar. The dark, dusty corridor of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place materialized around him, and with it, a heavy feeling lodged itself in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't been back to Sirius' house since the Battle, although he frequently spoke to Kreacher and received updates (no matter how unnecessary or unwanted) on the state of things. He couldn't imagine what memory Hermione could have of the place that would be important enough to share through the Pensieve.

Harry turned to see Hermione standing next to him, her face noticeably pale, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. He wanted to say something reassuring, but curiosity had already gotten the best of him. _Who in Grimmauld Place could Hermione have formed such a strong attachment to besides Ron? Harry thought, considering the possibilities. An Order member?_

He was just about to ask Hermione this very question, but when he opened his mouth to speak, she held a finger in front of her lips and hissed "shhh!" So wrapped up in his own thoughts, he hadn't noticed that the scene was coming to life in front of him.

Hermione (or rather, the Hermione-that-was) was making her way down the main staircase in the dark, stepping gingerly and clutching the banister as though afraid that at any moment something might blow up from one wrong step. A furtive glance towards the curtained portrait of Mrs. Black made the possibility of this much more real. Hermione made it to the landing without incident, and Harry could hear her sigh of relief as she crossed the remaining space between the foot of the stairs and the door to the kitchen. Light was seeping through the gaps in the doorframe, and Hermione hesitated before turning the knob.

Hermione paused in the open doorway to squint into the shadows. A single candle was lit on the kitchen table, its glow barely illuminating the figure hunched over the tabletop. It was Mad-Eye Moody, and as Hermione stepped into the kitchen, his magic eye swiveled around to meet her gaze.

"Good evening, sir," Hermione said, pulling the sash of her bathrobe tighter. She waited until the rest of Mad-Eyes body had caught up with his eye before continuing: "Did I disturb you?"

"Not at all," the Auror growled, tucking something into the pocket of his coat. Before it vanished into one of the vast pockets sewn into the lining, Harry recognized the Foe Glass that Mad-Eye was known to consult obsessively. With good reason, he thought, and for a moment he was distracted by his own memory of Mad-Eye's final hours spent saving his, Harry's, life.

"I couldn't sleep," Hermione said, talking more to herself than to the grizzled, older man. "I thought I'd make some tea. Mum always said it helped her get to sleep when she was restless. Would you like some?"

"No, thank you," Mad-Eye replied, pulling his hip flask from its holder and taking a deep swill. "Just about to be off." As he rose from his seat, Harry thought he heard him mutter something like "best not stay in one place too long" under his breath. As he stomped right past the place where he and the present Hermione were watching unseen, Harry had a sudden and unsettling thought and caused his stomach to lurch unpleasantly.

"Hermione," he whispered, forgetting that no one in the memory could hear him, "it isn't... I mean, you didn't... not _Mad-Eye_?"

The look of mingled shock and indignation on Hermione's face was almost worth the hard clout she delivered to the side of his head.

"Just watch," she hissed, glaring at him for a moment before returning her attention to the mirror image of herself who was just now shuffling around the kitchen, rummaging in the cupboards for a clean kettle. She had to open three separate drawers before finding a box of tea bags that didn't look as though they had molded several times over. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, stifling a yawn as she leaned against the counter to wait for the water to boil. It was then that she heard it.

Stepping away from the stove, Hermione cocked her head to one side as though straining to hear the notes of a song on a radio turned down to the lowest possible volume. The sounds seemed to be coming from the next room and, if Harry was any judge, it was not one but two male voices. He watched as Hermione turned the burner off and inched towards the door, sliding her feet across the floor like a skater drifting across a frozen pond.

In the hallway, the voices became louder, the words discernible. It took Harry (and Hermione, as well, by the wide-eyed look of surprise spreading across her face) mere seconds to recognize the voice of Albus Dumbledore. Hermione bit her lip as she swayed in her slippers, torn between staying and going back into the kitchen. Harry knew she wouldn't like the thought of eavesdropping, but something was rooting her to the spot.

"...say when he planned for this to happen?" Dumbledore was asking his companion.

"No," the other man replied, and Harry was not surprised to hear Snape's voice. He knew that the headmaster and his spy had met at Grimmauld Place on more than one occasion. "He's been very private about the where and when, only hinting at how. Even that, I think, he's saving until the last possible moment. The Dark Lord is not quick to share his thoughts, and his trust does not come easily."

"We are lucky, then, that we have you, Severus," Dumbledore said, and Harry could hear the hint of a smile in his tone.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," Snape replied flatly.

"Oh, say what you will," Dumbledore said, "but without you, our cause would be lost. One day, when this is all over, you'll be remembered as a hero."

"A hero?" Snape scoffed, and it sounded to Harry as though he spat the bitter words right onto the parlor room floor. "Rather ironic, don't you think, Headmaster?"

"Only as ironic as you allow it to be, Severus."

There was silence as one or both of the men considered this statement. After a moment, Snape spoke again, his voice quiet and lacking the bitter taint that normally laced his speech.

"You speak of 'remembrance' as though you don't expect me to live much longer," Snape said slowly but matter-of-factly. 

Dumbledore sighed.

"I do not hold much hope for either of us, my friend," Dumbledore replied, "but I do hope that I'm proven wrong."

The _pop_ of Disapparation was so subtle that Harry almost missed it. Hermione, it seemed, hadn't heard it at all; she seemed transfixed by some small warp in the wood of the parlor door, her eyebrows narrowed into a look that Harry equated with interpreting ancient Runes. She didn't notice the door swing open until it was too late.

"Listening at keyholes, Miss Granger?" Snape's voice had lost all hints of regret and returned to the sardonic drawl that Harry remembered from so many Potions classes.

"N-no!" Hermione stammered, back pressed against the opposite wall. "I... just came down for tea."

"You're a terrible liar, Miss Granger," Snape said, sneering down at her. "Not a skill to be picked up in books, is it?"

Hermione's cheeks were blushing a violent shade of scarlet, but she didn't speak until Snape had turned his back on her and made as though to leave. He had reached the end of the hall before she pried herself from the shadows and called out to him.

"Professor?"

Snape sighed, but did not turn around. Hermione seemed to take this as an encouragement to press on.

"Professor," she began, "I just wanted to say... that is, I never had a chance to tell you..."

"Spit it out, girl," he growled, impatient to leave.

"...thank you!"

For a moment, they both stood very still.

"I know that, if it weren't for you, the Order might never have found us at the Ministry," Hermione said, speaking quietly into the silence. "If you hadn't figured out where we were going, we would never have made it out alive. V-Voldemort would have gotten the prophecy..."

"...which he never would have been able to retrieve had you not walked stupidly into his trap like the bumbling _children_ that you are," Snape interjected, his back still all that she could see.

"Be that as it may," Hermione said calmly, the tension draining from her shoulders, "thank you, Professor."

Snape didn't respond. Instead, he paused just inside the front door and, before disappearing into the night, offered Hermione a terse nod that Harry could just barely make out from across the hall. As the scene began to fade in a whirlwind of color and sound, he saw Hermione turn back towards the kitchen with a smile.


	5. Help Unlooked For

Flashes of light and snatches of sound whisked Harry and Hermione to the next scene. As his vision cleared, Harry found himself in yet another familiar scene, but one which he hardly expected to see in Hermione's memory. He had never known Hermione to go down to the Hogwarts dungeons except for Potions class; in this memory, however, she was very much alone, and the silence of the corridor seemed to hint that it was after hours.

The Pensieve Hermione leaned against the dungeon wall, her face buried in her sleeve. Wet, gasping noises escaped from the gap between her arm and mouth, and when she moved her hand to grope for her wand, Harry caught a glimpse of puffy eyes and smudged tear tracks. 

"This was the night of Gryffindor's win against Slytherin," Hermione said, her voice oddly strained next to him. "It was our sixth year, and Ron... well, you were there. I'm afraid I was rather harsh."

Harry realized then why the scene looked so familiar: the crimson and gold jumper, traces of confetti in her hair, and a yellow feather floating aimlessly to the cold stone floor. Ron had been dating Lavender Brown, a minor disaster that seemed as though it had happened decades, rather than years, ago.

"Ron never did like birds much after that," Harry chuckled. He was quickly rewarded with a jab in the side. Mumbling a quick "sorry," he turned his attention back to the memory.

Hermione fumbled with her wand in the dark, trying unsuccessfully to cast Lumos but failing when a hiccup caught her in the middle of the spell. As she tried a third time, a noise from further down the corridor stopped her in her tracks.

A loud crash and a set of dull thuds and scrapes echoed at an alarming volume from somewhere in the darkness ahead. Harry saw Hermione's eyes go wide and watched as she flooded the hallway with light, running towards the sound. He thought wildly of the basilisk that he had heard slithering through the pipes within these very walls four years earlier, and for a moment he almost tried to call out to her before he remembered that it wouldn't make a bit of difference.

The scene that greeted her as she turned a sharp corner made Hermione stop dead in her tracks. There, sprawled in the middle of the corridor, was the prone figure of Severus Snape who, for once, seemed completely out of his element in his beloved dungeon halls. His robes, usually immaculate, were spattered with mud, his hair was laced with small bits of unidentifiable detritus, and his face was contorted in a grimace of pain. A trail of soot led out of a classroom behind him; Harry wondered how he had managed to navigate the Floo network in his condition. 

Hermione was at his side in a flash, levering his body up with her own. He didn't struggle, didn't seem to recognize who she was, but his hand latched onto her shoulder and used the anchor to straighten the rest of his body into something like standing. Hermione gently steered him down the corridor in the direction of the Potions classroom behind which, Harry assumed, was Snape's living space. She forced the door open with an agitated flick of her wand and levitated a chair from across the room into which she deposited the hunched and panting form of her Potions professor.

"Sir," she said, her voice urgent as she knelt in front of him, "what happened to you? Shall I get Madam Pomfrey? What can I –"

A hiss of pain cut her short.

"Not. Pomfrey. Need. To speak. To Dumbledore."

Harry almost laughed to hear Hermione snort incredulously, tossing her hair out of her face and shaking her head as though Snape had just said the most ridiculous thing imaginable.

"That can bloody well wait," she said. "Just... just stay where you are, Professor. If you won't see Madam Pomfrey than you need... you need..."

She hesitated for a moment before launching herself across the classroom towards the ingredient cupboard, flinging the doors open and tearing through drawers at a speed that caught even Harry by surprise. One by one, she tossed individual ingredients into the open air behind her but instead of crashing to the ground, they levitated in a neat line, bobbing gently in the dank dungeon air. When she had all that she needed, she spun around and conducted the parade of bottles to one of the long tables where she, Harry, and Ron had spent countless hours laboring over their cauldrons. One such cauldron had been left behind and was quickly called into service under Hermione's ministering hand.

As Hermione poured, diced, and stirred, Snape watched warily from his chair in the corner, all the while muttering to himself but either incapable or unwilling to intervene. While she worked, Hermione dictated the steps aloud, pausing between each one as though to invite feedback from her professor.

"...and I'm adding the Re'em blood, but only a small drop. I know that too much in a potion can cause excess, harmful stimulus to a healing body, and that's certainly not what I want. And this unicorn hair – I think it looks just about long enough, but the instructions call for exactly six inches. I don't have a ruler, so I suppose this will have to do..."

By the time Snape had managed to lift himself out of the chair, Hermione was already decanting the softly glowing potion into a vial she had summoned from the desk at the head of the classroom.

"Sir," she cried, putting an arm out to brace him when he began to lean too far forward, "you shouldn't be standing! The Cruciatus Curse can cause physical reactions in its victims hours after the initial casting, and –"

"I never said I had been cursed," Snape rasped, his first words since the beginning of the ordeal.

"You didn't have to, sir," Hermione replied, "I recognize the signs. I read all about the Unforgivable Curses during our fourth year and I made sure to read through the signs and antidotes again last year. I thought it would be helpful to know as much about them as possible since You-Know-Who seems to favor them. I... I am right, aren't I, Professor?"

Snape answered with his silence, and Hermione used the pause to press the potion into his hands.

"You should take that right away, sir," she said, already busy clearing up the remaining potion ingredients and casting a quick Scourgify on the glistening cauldron.

"I suppose," Snape said, straightening to his full height as his strength began to return and frowning down at the top of Hermione's tousle-haired head, "you learned all about Invigoration Draughts from one of your beloved books as well."

"Oh no," Hermione said, wiping her sweaty palms on her robes and returning his gaze with a look of eager confidence, "you taught them to us last year. I remember I didn't quite get it right in class, but I stayed up all night until I brewed a perfect batch. Or, at least, close to perfect. I think it was the ginger root... didn't cut it just so..."

The words caught in her throat when she saw Snape's furrowed brow and the piercing look in his black eyes as he watched her, unblinking. Cheeks flushing, she ducked her head and raced to the door of the classroom.

"Good night, Professor," she muttered. She was already halfway out the door when he called her back.

"Miss Granger."

"Y-yes, Professor?"

Snape was silent for a moment. Finally, he said, "Filch will be wandering the corridors. Take the back stairs and avoid the second floor unless you want detentions for a week."

Harry saw Hermione's blush replaced with a timid smile.

"Thank you, Professor," she said, stepping out into the dark hallway and closing the door behind her.

The darkness of the corridor swallowed Hermione as the whirling, multi-color cloud of the shifting Pensieve claimed Harry yet again.


	6. Post-Mortem

Harry was at no loss to identify the next Pensieve memory. The wide expanse of the Great Lake stretched out behind him, the looming towers of Hogwarts Castle in front of him, and the eerie moan of the Forbidden Forest's trees shifting in the summer breeze were as familiar as the back of his own hand. The date of this memory was quick to follow in the sight of a newly-erected sarcophagus, gleaming white on the banks of the lake. The last remaining mourners at Dumbledore's funeral were making their way back towards the castle gates, and with an odd jolt of recognition, he saw himself among their number walking towards the school with Ron and Hermione at his side.

Of course, he thought. He had just declared his intentions of not returning to Hogwarts next year, and Ron and Hermione had made it clear that they wouldn't let him go off on his mission alone. As they walked, Harry watched the trio with a renewed fascination.

Just as Harry began to think he had missed something important, he saw Hermione separate from the group and make her way quickly back towards the lake. He vaguely remembered her murmuring something about wanting to be alone for a few minutes, that he and Ron should go ahead without her. The black robes she had donned for the funeral billowed around her feet as she hurried across the grounds, but instead of stopping beside the dais, she kept on until her path led her around the lake and off on a trail that Harry had never noticed before that led directly into the Forbidden Forest.

Once she had gone deep enough to avoid detection by anyone passing near the forest border, Hermione stopped to pull out her wand. She braced herself, straightening her back and lifting her chin before calling out two words that caught Harry completely off guard.

"Professor Snape," she called, her voice bouncing off of the tall, knobbed tree trunks that hemmed her in on all sides. When no response came, she raised her voice and tried again while narrowing her eyes and scanning the shadows that danced down from the canopies above. At last, she held her wand arm out and directed a firm "Homenum Revelio" to a spot about ten feet in front of her.

"Give me a little credit, Miss Granger," a voice said brusquely from the shade of an alder tree behind her.

Spinning about on her heels, Hermione clutched her wand to her chest in an attempt to hide the great, gasping breaths that had her eyes bulging in surprise.

"Professor," she said, stepping uncertainly towards him with. Harry noticed that, although she still held her wand tightly in her hand, it was no longer pointing towards Snape.

"Aren't you going to scream, Granger?" Snape spat, emerging further from the darkness but enough in the shadows to cast his face into strange relief. "Not going to try to hex me, to turn me in to the Ministry? Or do you, like your precious Potter, have a death wish which any passing Death Eater could fulfill?"

Hermione shook her head and, to Harry's surprise, seemed almost to smile.

"I know why you did it," she whispered, holding her ground while Snape nearly staggered in response.

"What?" he growled, face contorted in a mixture of confusion and anger.

"I know that Professor Dumbledore wanted you to do it," Hermione explained, "to kill him. It all made sense after Harry told us exactly what happened in the astronomy tower."

"And what, pray, did he tell you?" Snape's voice was barely a whisper.

"That Dumbledore begged you," Hermione said. "That he said 'please.' I may not have known the Headmaster personally, but he never struck me as someone who would beg for his life. He didn't ask Harry to spare him when they were hunting Horcruxes, and he certainly wouldn't have asked it of a Death Eater – if you'll forgive the term."

"Do... are you implying that the Headmaster was suicidal?" Snape asked, his eyebrows furrowed in a way that Harry usually associated with concern but which looked peculiar on the face of his ex-Potions Master.

"No," Hermione replied slowly, staring intently at a clump of grass at her feet. "No, but I don't think he would have had his life extended when he knew he didn't have much time left anyway." 

Snape's breath caught in his throat, and Hermione paused as she tried to work out the best way to phrase what she had to say next.

"I...I did some research at the beginning of term when I saw Professor Dumbledore's hand at the opening feast. Harry said he didn't know what had caused it, but I recognized a curse right away: a powerful one, and a particularly malicious one, if Dumbledore hadn't been able to prevent it. Everything I read pointed towards something terminal, and then he seemed to be making so sure that Harry knew exactly how to carry on with the Horcruxes, almost as if he didn't expect to be there to help for much longer..."

"Enough!" Snape shouted, glaring at Hermione with a look that would have wilted even the strongest and most stalwart of wizards. 

"Does Potter know?" he growled. When Hermione didn't answer immediately, he closed the distance between them in three long steps and shoved his wand to her throat. 

"DOES. POTTER. KNOW??"

Trembling, Hermione shook her head. "N-no, he... he still thinks you murdered him. But why...?"

"Stupid girl," Snape spat, lowering his wand and stalking back to the trees. "If Potter knew that I've been doing Dumbledore's bidding, I might as well give myself up to the Dark Lord right now. We both know that boy is hopeless at Occlumency. If Potter even suspected the truth, it would only be a matter of a few days before He looked into that idiot's mind and found out the truth."

Hermione shuddered appreciatively, her face completely white.

"I won't tell, Professor," she whispered, "I promise."

Snape snorted, casting a withering look over his shoulder. "The fate of the wizarding world in the hands of a know-it-all school girl? Lovely."

This comment seemed to give Hermione courage so that, when Snape turned and began to disappear back into the Forest, she hurried after him.

"Wait," she said, panting slightly as she jogged to catch up. "I have a favor to ask you."

Stopping dead in his tracks, Snape whirled around. "What makes you think I would do anything for you?"

"Because I'm Harry's friend," Hermione said matter-of-factly, "and you know as well as I do that by helping me, you're essentially helping him. You may not like him, sir, but if Harry fails in the task that Dumbledore's set out for him, everything you've done will have been in vain."

Snape was silent for a few moments. At last, he glanced down at Hermione with a look of mixed disdain and respect and said, "Fine. Ask it."

The look of relief on Hermione's face was instantaneous, and it seemed to Harry that Hermione was so happy she might try to hug Snape.

"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "You won't regret it, I promise."

"Somehow I seriously doubt that, Miss Granger," Snape replied.

To Harry's surprise, the memory began to fade before he found out exactly what it was that Hermione was about to ask. Instead, he felt a pull on the back of his neck as he and the real Hermione were drawn from the Pensieve and back into Hermione's sitting room.


	7. Hermione's Revelations

When Harry emerged from the Pensieve, it took him a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the room. From the position of the sun outside the window of Hermione's flat, hours had passed since they had gone into the Pensieve. As he lowered himself onto the tiny couch next to a weeping Hermione, Harry wondered whether the heavy exhaustion pinning him down was a result of the late hour or the weight of the memories he had just witnessed.

"Hermione," he said at last, staring at her until she lifted her bleary eyes to meet his, "are you telling me that Snape is the father?"

"You have to promise not to tell, Harry," Hermione moaned, a fresh bout of tears welling up in her eyes as her face crumpled in on itself. "Please!"

A war of emotions flooded Harry, but it was pity that won out as he reached across the couch and pulled Hermione towards him. As she cried into his jumper, he stroked the back of her head and tried to come to terms with what she had just told him.

_How could she have been with Snape and never let on? And what would make her fall for him – to go to bed with him, for Merlin's sake!_

"Hermione," he said, lifting her head gently off his shoulder and turning her so that she was facing him, "were you... that is, did he force you?"

"No," Hermione gasped, wiping furiously at her eyes. "How could you even think that?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm sorry, 'Mione, but I had to ask. It's just that I didn't think you were particularly close to Snape. I've never even seen you talk to him outside of Hogwarts..."

"As you can tell from the Pensieve, Harry," Hermione interrupted, her eyebrows slightly raised, "there are quite a few things you failed to see over the last few years. I'm not blaming you," she interjected. "You had every right to be preoccupied, and I became rather good at lying. It wasn't that I didn't trust you, Harry, but you heard what Snape said: if you'd realized he was really on our side the whole time, Voldemort could have seen into your mind and realized that he had been tricked all along."

Why keep it a secret after the war? He was just about to ask her this very question when she spoke again, her voice strangely quiet and her eyes staring at something just above the Pensieve.

"It was his idea to use enchanted books," she said. "I thought it was rather ironic considering how Voldemort used his old diary to control Ginny and talk to you. But it was really quite perfect: one more book in my collection wouldn't draw yours or Ron's attention, and he was able to charm them so that when one of us wrote, it would immediately appear on the other's page. Only our wands and the right incantation would reveal the writing; otherwise, they looked just like copies of Hogwarts, a History. I always wondered whether he knew that that was the first book I read when I found out I was a witch...

"His responses were always short, at least in the beginning. I wrote great, long letters, asking him for advice on the best protective charms to cast on our campsites and he would respond with one or two words, just enough to make me understand the spell. I didn't mind, though; he always answered my questions, and I never had to wait longer than half a day before hearing back from him. There were days when I wrote just for the sake of writing, knowing that someone was on the receiving end of my letters.

"I was just so alone," she said, and her hand closed over Harry's as she explained: "I had you, of course, and Ron – most of the time – but it wasn't the same. We were all so consumed with finding Horcruxes that it didn't seem right to bother with you with how much I missed my parents, how much I hated Ron complaining, and how scared I was every time we broke camp, thinking that we would be found out before we could put up our wards. It was so frightening to move on day after day, not knowing where to go next, hoping that we'd made the right guess. Dumbledore left us so little to go on, and it seemed like our search would never end. So at night, after you both were asleep, I wrote in Snape's book. Even though he usually just responded with an update on Hogwarts or a suggestion for a new defensive spell, I looked so forward to his replies. Every now and then, he would let something slip: a reference to his mother his concern for the students at Hogwarts. I don't think he'd had anyone to confide in for a very long time..."

Hermione paused to wipe her face with a handkerchief Harry had Summoned.

"Do you know," she said, a weak smile playing on her lips, "it was Severus who managed to get me the Polyjuice Potion we used so that we could break into Ministry. He left it for me underneath a rubbish bin at the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road."

Harry wasn't sure what surprised him more: the fact that Hermione had just used Snape's first name, or that Snape had been helping him from afar even during that year on the run when Harry had been so sure the Potions Master had murdered Dumbledore in cold blood and was waiting for the opportunity to do the same to him.

"There's so much more you should know," Hermione said, her shoulders sagging with the weight of exhaustion and emotion, "but I'm afraid I can't tell you everything. Not tonight, anyway. Ginny's probably wondering where you are, and... oh Merlin, Ginny!" 

Fresh tears sprung up in Hermione's eyes as they sought out Harry's.

"She must be so angry that this isn't Ron's baby. Harry, is she as angry as Molly?"

"Actually," Harry said, "Ginny's more or less all right. I mean, it's like I said before: she was mad at first, but you're one of her best friends, and she knows you would never do intentionally do anything to hurt anyone, Ron or otherwise. As a matter of fact..." 

Harry paused while he struggled to wrestle an envelope from the pocket of his jeans. "Don't worry, it's not a Howler," he said when he saw Hermione's hesitation to accept it. "Actually, I think you'll find an invitation inside to be one of the bridesmaids at our wedding."

"Really?" Hermione said, eyes wide in astonishment. "Oh, Harry, I'd be honored!"

"Great!" Harry said with a sigh of mock relief. "I was afraid of what she'd do if I came back with an answer that wasn't yes!"

The mood was considerably lightened as they both laughed.

Before he left, Harry made Hermione promise to write to him regularly and to Floo if there was an emergency. With the wedding only two weeks away, he knew that opportunities to talk like this would be scarce for a while.

"I'm still trying to process what you showed me today, Hermione," he said just before Flooing back to the Burrow, "but I am trying. Just give me a little time, OK?"

"All the time you need," Hermione said. "Just don't abandon me, all right?"

"Never."


	8. Of Rumors and Reunions

GOLDEN TRIO SCANDAL REVEALED AT POTTER/WEASLEY WEDDING  
 _The Daily Prophet_ , by Ephie Praddleshanks

The wedding of Harry Potter and long-time girlfriend Ginevra Weasley (sister of Potter's best friend, Ronald Weasley) was the event of the decade. The union of two of the Voldemort Wars' major players was easily the most anticipated union since music sensation Celestina Warbeck married her erstwhile lover, artist and troll rights activist Mercurius Dogberth.

The spotlight was not, however, on the celebrated groom and his lovely bride. Instead, it was Hermione Granger – Potter's friend and Horcrux-hunting companion – who truly stole the attention of wedding-goers. It had been rumored that she and Ronald Weasley had broken up earlier last month, and this reporters believes she knows the real reason why: Miss Granger is in the family way!

It's true: besides sporting a lovely set of sky blue robes, Miss Granger was unmistakably wearing the beginnings of a "baby bump." When asked to comment on her situation, Miss Granger refused to speak with Prophet representatives. Word among the other wedding guests, however, is that the baby is not Mr. Weasley's, and that this was the very reason for their sudden and unexpected split.

But just who could the father be? Those who knew Granger during her time at Hogwarts claim that she was always shy and reserved and rarely showed interest in any boys besides Potter and Weasley. She attended the Yule Ball in her fourth year with renowned Quidditch star Viktor Krum, but has not been seen in his company since. One wonders whether all is not as "golden" in the Trio as we have been led to believe!

Perhaps more will be revealed in the weeks to come. Certainly, Miss Granger cannot keep her situation out of the public eye any longer! For updates on this and more, check out tomorrow's edition of "The Daily Prophet."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hermione threw her copy of "The Daily Prophet" down on her coffee table. _The nerve of that woman,_ she fumed. _Merlin, she's worse than Rita bloody Skeeter!_ Grabbing her mug, she pulled herself up from the couch and stalked into the kitchen where she immediately began slamming drawers and cupboard doors.

She knew that people would talk, of course. She'd almost told Harry and Ginny that she couldn't come to the wedding after seeing herself in the gown she had bought for the occasion. In the end, she decided it would be best to take what criticism would come so long as it meant being there for her best friends' wedding. Now, she wasn't so sure.

The aftermath of the ceremony had admittedly not been as bad as she had expected. She had been bracing herself for a renewal of Molly's Howler sentiments, but the mother-of-the-bride had been surprisingly polite if a little reserved. Ron had avoided her altogether, but that was probably for the best; every time she caught him staring at her, his eyes drifting inevitably down to her slightly-distended stomach, she felt as though she would be sick.

She had found an unexpected ally in Luna Lovegood, who had wasted no time in wishing her well and offering advice on the beneficial effects of gurdyroot on pregnant women. And then, just as she was about to leave at the end of the night, Neville had approached her and actually offered her his hand in marriage.

"You shouldn't have to raise a baby on your own, Hermione," he had said, his ears turning a bright shade of red. "I know I'm not your first choice, but if you want me, I'm your man."

Hermione had tried very hard not to laugh as she thanked Neville. She was sincerely touched by his offer, but she happened to know that Neville had had eyes for Luna since their last year at Hogwarts. He looked relieved when she turned him down with a hug, but wouldn't let her leave until she promised to Floo him if she ever needed anything at all.

It had been a little over two months since the wedding, and Hermione was beginning to go stir crazy. She hardly left her flat for fear of walking into a swarm of Prophet photographers; instead, she used the Floo Network to get to her appointments at St. Mungo's, and whenever she snuck out to meet Luna for tea or to pick up a new book from the library in Diagon Alley, she was always careful to walk in the middle of crowds.

A knock on the door almost made her drop the teakettle she was using to refresh her mug. As she walked through the sitting room, she eyed the crumpled Daily Prophet and the leftover tea things with regret.

"Harry!" she cried, flinging the door open the moment she saw his face through the spy-hole. 

Standing in the doorway, Harry greeted her with a tight hug. When she pulled away to usher him inside, he thrust a package into her hands with a broad smile.

"Ginny helped me pick it out," he said, watching her extricate its contents from their brown wrapping. "We found it at a street market in Berlin."

Inside, Hermione found a beautiful shawl that looked like it had been woven from unicorn tail hair. The strands shifted color in the light coming in from the window, and when she rubbed the fabric against her cheek, the texture was softer than silk.

"It's beautiful," she said, stroking the fringe.

"We thought it would be perfect for when you read," Harry said, "It's been enchanted to adjust to the perfect temperature depending on your body heat." Blushing slightly, he added: "The witch we bought it from said it was a good gift for expecting mothers. Apparently makes an ideal baby blanket."

"Thank you, Harry," Hermione said, smiling sincerely. "You'll tell Ginny thank you from me, won't you?"

"Of course," he replied.

They had settled in with cups of steaming tea and Harry had finished telling Hermione all about his and Ginny's honeymoon travels across wizarding Europe when Harry turned to Hermione, suddenly serious.

"I told you I needed time," he said, referring to their last conversation, "and I've had that. I understand how you could have come to feel close to Snape, even grateful for the help he was giving us..."

"Oh, Harry," she said, stopping him mid-sentence, "is that what you think? Of course I was grateful, but it was so much more than that. I didn't plan it, but it became obvious pretty quickly that Severus and I were kindred spirits. There's so much more to him than what we saw at Hogwarts: there, he had to hide who he was to keep up his image so that word wouldn't get back to Voldemort that he was anything other than the Dark Lord's inside man. Can you imagine what it felt like, living that kind of life for so long?"

Harry shook his head. He remembered how shocked he had been to see the pain on Snape's face in the memories he had collected in the Shrieking Shack, how hard it had been to learn how much Snape had risked to protect his mother and then, after she had died, the lengths he had gone to see that he, Harry – a boy he hated for how much he reminded him of James Potter – was kept out of harm's way.

"What I did was not out of pity," Hermione said, her voice hardened by what Harry had unconsciously implied.

"I didn't mean – " Harry began, but Hermione stopped him with her raised hand.

"There are still a few memories I want to show you, Harry," she said, and when he nodded, she summoned the Pensieve from the closet where she had tucked it away after their last meeting. He watched as she poured the contents of the last two bottles into the silver basin and then he joined her in front of the table. This time, it was Hermione who offered her hand to Harry as they leaned in to take one last look into the past.


	9. Saviour in Black

Harry blinked his eyes a few times, struggling to see through a strange darkness. Just as he began to wish that his wand would work inside the Pensieve, he heard a frightened voice shouting "Lumos" into the gloom and recognized it immediately as Hermione. She was waving her wand frantically, casting spells at the lanterns in what he now could see was the tent they had shared while hunting Horcruxes.

"It was just after Godric's Hollow," Hermione whispered next to him, watching as her double stumbled through the tent flap. "We escaped, but you were unconscious by the time we Apparated. You were out for hours, Harry. I was so scared."

Harry watched with fascinated horror as Hermione waved her wand and his own limp body floated into the tent to rest on a pile of cushions. Her face was pale beneath the blood from half a dozen cuts to her cheeks and forehead, and her eyes were wide as she ran her hands over his body to check for injuries. His forearm was bleeding profusely, and when Hermione peeled his shirt back, she gasped to see the puncture wounds that were already turning a nasty shade of green.

Hermione's hands were shaking as she tore through the contents of her beaded bag, throwing aside spare clothes and empty vials in her search. When she stood, she had a thick, black book and a spare quill in her hands. She threw the book on a table and scribbled something on one of the pages; then she tapped the cover with her wand and whispered something under her breath. She hurried back to Harry's side and began to clean the snake bite with a cloth, all the while whispering what Harry assumed were spells of healing but which might as easily have been prayers.

They both jumped at the sound of a loud POP just outside the tent a few minutes later. The next moment, the tent flap flew aside and Snape strode in, wand raised.

"What's happened?" Snape asked, pushing Hermione aside and staring down at Harry's body.

"We – we went to Godric's Hollow," Hermione stammered, her fingers clenched around the bloodied cloth in her hand, "to talk to Bathilda Bagshot, but it was a trap. The snake – "

Snape cursed loudly. "Of course. The Dark Lord thought you would look there; he planted Nagini there two nights ago. I've been with him since then or I would have written to warn you."

As he spoke, Snape pulled a small bottle from his cloak. "Hold his head up," he said, nodding towards Harry. Hermione hurried to do as he asked, and Snape lowered the bottle to Harry's mouth. After making sure that all of the liquid had been swallowed, Snape knelt beside his body and began to inspect the wound more closely.

"I've given him an anti-venom," he explained, "one that I developed specifically for the Dark Lord's pet. It should be strong enough to counter the poison, but it's going to take a few hours to be sure. In the meantime..."

Hermione waited for Snape to tell her what she should be doing while they waited, but when he didn't answer right away, she followed his gaze to Harry's chest where the Horcrux had embedded itself in his skin. She gasped, and immediately tried to pull it from him.

"It won't come off!" she cried, her wand hand trembling. She watched as Snape looked closely at the seal between metal and skin. Although he did not ask what it was or why Harry was wearing it, she caught him looking up at her questioningly. At last, he spoke.

"I will have to use a Severing Charm," he said quietly. "You'd better look away."

Hermione's eyes squeezed closed so that all she heard was a sickening, wet tearing sound. When at last she opened her eyes, Snape had covered the wound with gauze and was holding the Horcrux out to her. She took it, wrapped it in the cloth she had used to clean the snake bite, and shoved it deep inside her bag.

As she turned to ask what else she should do, Hermione stumbled and, to her surprise, it was Snape's arm that held her up.

"You look exhausted," he said, looking closely at her for the first time. "Rest. I'll take care of the boy."

When she protested, Snape summoned a pillow from her bed and gruffly ordered her to lie down. She must have done so because the next thing she remembered was waking up to a ray of sunlight hitting her face and the sound of bird song outside the tent. When she sat up, a blanket fell away from where it had been tucked beneath her chin. In the light of morning, she could see Snape bent over Harry, his wand moving slowly up and down as he muttered incantations under his breath.

"Will he be all right?" Hermione asked, her voice rough from sleep.

"He'll be fine," Snape answered. "The anti-venom worked. He'll need to rest for a few days and make sure the wound stays clean. If he does that, he should make a full recovery."

"Thank you," Hermione whispered, and before she knew what she was doing, she had thrown herself at Snape and wrapped her arms around him. He didn't return the hug, but he didn't pull away, either. When she released him, she noticed a faint color on his cheeks and she smiled at the realization that she had made Severus Snape blush.

"I have to go," he said, tucking his wand into a pocket inside his cloak. "I told the Dark Lord I was expected back at Hogwarts; it would be difficult to explain why I wasn't there last night should he find out about my absence."

As the Pensieve shifted and the scene began to change, Harry saw Hermione watch Snape leave and heard her whisper "thank you, Severus," quietly under her breath.


	10. The Joining of Souls

The whirling colors of the Pensieve dissipated, revealing to Harry a dark and roiling shoreline. Clouds had blotted out the stars and the moon, though full, was half hidden behind the grey masses looming overhead. In the distance, Harry could just make out the lights of a house.

"Shell Cottage," Hermione said, nodding towards the lights. "We had only been there a few days when I found a note in my book asking me to meet him."

Harry expected her to say more, but she shook her head and in her eyes he thought he could see the glint of unshed tears. Instead of pressing her, he turned to look out across the beach where a very different Hermione stood on the edge of the ocean wrapped in a blanket, staring out across the sea. 

The sound of the waves crashing onto the beach masked the sound of Apparition so that it seemed as though Snape had materialized out of the night. He strode across the sand and caught Hermione by surprise, reaching out and holding her face between his hands.

"What happened?" he demanded, his eyes boring into hers.

"We made a mistake," Hermione said, her voice weak. "The Snatchers caught us because Harry used You-Know-Who's name and they took us to Malfoy Manor. We got away, though, and Harry's safe, but we lost the sword, and..."

"Damn the sword!" Snape exclaimed with such intensity it made both Harry and Hermione jump. "I couldn't care less about the bloody sword. When I think what she did to you –"

The spark of realization shone in Hermione's eyes. 

"I'm fine," she said, her voice wavering unconvincingly.

"Stronger wizards than you have broken under the tender ministrations of Bellatrix Lestrange," Snape said, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he spoke the witch's name. 

"I've brought you a potion that should minimize the physical effects of the Cruciatus Curse," he said, releasing Hermione to reach inside his robes. The moment he let go of her face, however, Hermione leaned in and closed the space between them. She had to stand on her toes to make their lips meet, and as they kissed, her fingers clenched folds of black fabric.

"Hermione," he gasped, pulling away with an obvious effort, "do you really want to do this?"

Harry thought he heard her laugh.

"Do you know what I was thinking while Bellatrix was torturing me?" Hermione asked, her eyes seeking his in the darkness. "I wasn't thinking about Harry and how our search might have been in vain. I wasn't even worried about dying. All I could think about was how unfair it was that that awful woman was robbing me of the chance to see you one more time. Is that silly?"

"No," Snape murmured, his forehead pressed to hers. "But it's funny. During the first war, when wizards and witches were marrying so young, I thought they were stupid for committing to someone else when their chances of surviving were so slim. But now..."

"Now?" Hermione repeated.

"Now I understand completely."

The kiss they shared then was so intimate, so intense, that Harry felt it was wrong to watch. When he turned away, his eyes met Hermione's and he saw that she had been sobbing silently next to him the entire time.


	11. Harry's Gift

Hermione had spent the next hour crying in Harry's arms. When she was able to sit up and talk again without bursting into tears (an annoying habit that she was quick to attribute to her pregnancy hormones), she explained everything to Harry that the memories had been unable to show.

She and Snape had met almost every night that Hermione had stayed at Shell Cottage. After everyone in the house had fallen asleep, she would sneak out to a cove that had been carved out by the sea far enough away from the house to avoid detection. They had performed a wand joining ceremony there – the closest thing to a marriage ceremony they could hope to have. What she didn't tell Harry was how they had held each other after and, with a growing sense of desperation, completed the final act of joining for a groom and his bride. She remembered the way his body had risen to meet her need and how surprised she had been by the ache left by his absence after he had gone.

She explained to Harry how, on one of the last nights they had spent together, Snape had made Hermione promise that if anything should happen to him, she must not interfere until Harry had received the memories that Dumbledore needed him to see. In the end, he had forced her to make an Unbreakable Vow and she had agreed, but she had not understood the cost until she saw him, bloody and dying, on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. She told Harry how she had gone back after the battle and found his body gone. How she had been sending out inquiries to every wizarding hospital in Europe, but all in vain; no one had seen Severus Snape since his flight from Hogwarts, and he was universally believed to be dead.

After Harry left, Hermione prepared a Sleeping Draught and nestled into bed, her eyes already half swollen from tears. As she drifted towards unconsciousness, her brain replayed what Harry had said to her just before Apparating back to his and Ginny's home on the outskirts of the city.

"I can't think of anyone who deserves you more," he had said, squeezing her hand tight. "Thank you for trusting me."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been almost three months since Hermione had shown Harry the last of her Pensieve memories, and she had seen very little of him in all that time. He wrote to her often, but whenever she Flooed, Ginny always told her that he was "out." In the meantime, Hermione had watched her body expand to suit the needs of the child growing inside her and had awoken each morning to new symptoms of motherhood: an aching back one day, swollen feet the next, and every morning the same nausea that had haunted her from the beginning.

On the morning that Harry showed up on her doorstep, Hermione had just awoken from troubled dreams of writhing snakes and stormy seas. She couldn't understand why he was so adamant that she get dressed and come with him – didn't he know that it took her twice as long to get ready now that she was toting twenty extra pounds?

She was even more confused when, two hours later, they pulled up in front of the vacant shop window that acted as a hidden entrance to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies. They had taken a taxi all the way from Wembley because Apparition was too tricky for a pregnant witch and broom riding was obviously out of the question. As he led her through the hallways and onto the lift that took them to the first floor and then on to the Healers' Station where an attendant witch unlocked a warded door, she felt a growing sense of anticipation spread through her body like a fever.

"Harry," she said finally, breathless from trying to keep up with his energetic stride, "where are you taking me?"

Pausing in front of a door at the end of a long corridor, Harry took her by the hand. "When I left your flat the night you showed me those last memories," he said, "I sent Ginny an owl telling her not to expect me back for a few days. Everything you told me made me realize that there was something I could do for you and Snape, even if it meant just putting to rest the doubts about his death."

Hermione's eyes widened as she began to understand the implications of what Harry was saying, but she didn't speak. Instead, she listened as he told her about the weeks he had spent traveling around the country and writing to everyone he could think of who had had ties to Snape before and during the war. Being the Boy Who Lived, he explained, loosened a few tongues until he was able to follow a hint from none other than Minerva McGonagall herself. 

"It turns out Madam Pomfrey went to the Shrieking Shack that night," Harry explained, "and was able to administer an anti-venom. He had lost a lot of blood, but she was able to get him to the Infirmary until she could organize to have him transferred here to this closed ward."

"Are you telling me," Hermione interrupted, her knuckles white as they pressed down on her swollen belly, "that he's _alive_? Here?"

"He's still weak," Harry explained, "and he can't talk much, but he's agreed to see you."

"Agreed?"

For the first time, Harry began to look uncomfortable. "It's just... I think he's worried that you won't want him. He seems to think that what you did was in the heat of the moment and that now the war is over you'll have moved on. He doesn't want you to be tied down to an invalid."

"He told you that?"

"He wrote it out," Harry said, miming a quill darting across parchment. "I would have brought you here sooner, but it took me a while to convince him to let you see him."

"I want to go in," Hermione said, her hand reaching for the doorknob.

"Hermione, are you sure?" Harry asked, his green eyes full of concern.

"Now, Harry."

The first thing that Hermione saw upon entering the room was a Healer bent over the bed, adjusting the sheets. The blonde, bright-eyed witch turned to greet her and smiled, offering her hand. It seemed as though she said something, but Hermione didn't hear a word. It was Harry who asked the woman if she would show him to the tearoom and, when it became clear that he wouldn't take "no" for an answer, the Healer gave Hermione one last, queer look.

Only when the door shut behind them did the man on the bed turn to face her. It was then, as their eyes met, that the baby leaped inside Hermione's belly for the first time.


End file.
